Education: Cambridge Birthday

(See front cover)

Early one morning last week in the heart of London the bells of Southwark Cathedral clanged to commemorate a distinguished act by an otherwise undistinguished Southwark citizen named John Harvard. Across the Atlantic in Cambridge, Mass., great scholars from the earth's four corners joined in solemn procession to pay homage to the school that John Harvard helped to found. After 300 years Harvard was not only the oldest and richest university in the U. S. but also one of the world's brightest lamps of learning.

Into the murk of old Sanders Theatre marched the 554 foreign delegates to Harvard's Tercentenary Celebration in their robes of black, scarlet, gold. Up to President James Bryant Conant and Harvard's Fellows, waiting on the dusty stage, they filed like graduates in some fabulous commencement. First, according to seniority, came swarthy Professor Saleh Hashem Attia from that most ancient university, Al-Azhar, founded at Cairo in 970 A. D. Lanky, bespectacled President Conant, trying to keep the golden tassel of his mortarboard from slipping forward as he bowed, pumped Professor Attia's hand, drawled: "How do you do?" Next came delegates from Bologna, Paris, Oxford. Then up to the stage marched smiling Physicist Sir Arthur Stanley Eddington and four other dons from Cambridge. As Chemist Conant grinned broadly at Physicist Eddington, the long line of waiting scholars burst into applause.

Cambridge to Cambridge, Thus signalized was a unique relationship in the family tree of Education. Elite of the young colonists to settle Massachusetts in 1630 were Cantabrigians, who six years later determined to set up a "colledge in the Wilderness." Six members of the Massachusetts Great and General Court which on Oct. 28, 1636 set aside £400 for that "schoale or colledge" were Cambridge men. From Cambridge came Harvard's first two Presidents, Nathaniel Eaton and Henry Dunster. The name of the site of the "schoale" was soon changed from Newetowne to Cambridge. Indeed, from Cambridge came John Harvard himself.

Son of a Southwark butcher, Harvard was converted to Puritanism at Cambridge, soon sailed to the Massachusetts Bay Colony to preach it. Still a young man, he died "of a consumption" a year later, bequeathing to the new school his library of 400 volumes and some £800 which enabled it to open its doors as Harvard College in the autumn of 1638. Last week no one knew what Benefactor Harvard looked like or where he was buried.*

Sense of the Past, Such was the beginning of an institution which is almost twice as old as the Republic it has so ably served, and whose history it embraces and reflects. Harvard had been open a hundred years when incipient young rebels like John and Samuel Adams and James Otis placidly penned their exercises beneath the Lion & Unicorn of the Georges. Four years before the British burned the U. S. Capitol, John Kirkland began his brilliant presidency of Harvard (1810-28) which gave the University its Law and Divinity schools, turned out such ornaments of U. S. Literature as Ralph Waldo Emerson, William Hickling Prescott, George Bancroft. At their heels came Oliver Wendell Holmes (Class of 1829), Henry David Thoreau and Richard Henry Dana (Class of 1837). The unbridgeable, bloody chasm between the Northern and Southern traditions was nowhere more evident than in the quiet incredulity with which Henry Adams regarded the son of Robert Edward Lee who was his classmate in the '50s. And the 19th Century was on its last legs in more than a chronological sense when Alice Lee stole up into the gallery of the old gymnasium because her fiance, Theodore Roosevelt (Class of 1880) wanted her to see him box a classmate.

Harvard first paused to celebrate its past under fussy old President Josiah Quincy in 1836. The Bicentenary graduating class had 39 members, less than contemporary Dartmouth, Princeton, Union, or Yale. A handful of New England college presidents were invited to be the learned guests of honor. All but President Heman Humphrey of Amherst declined the opportunity to listen to President Quincy's two-hour historical oration. Josiah Quincy was bitterly disappointed that his Bicentennial was less an academic festival than a convivial reunion of Harvardmen. In one form or another this year, the Harvard Tercentenary has been going on since June, with conventions of scholars entertained and entertaining at scores of minor celebrations staged by various schools and departments. That the Tercentenary was a prime academic festival not even Josiah Quincy could deny. In the grand windup last week, however, Harvard's sons appropriated the second and liveliest of the three concluding Tercentenary days.

Sons, Descending on Cambridge and Boston 20,000 strong for the Tercentenary meeting of the Associated Harvard Clubs, alumni brought with them more than $5,000,000 in gifts and a number of other mementos and souvenirs for their alma mater.*

In 1908, vigilant alumni discovered a Lionel de Jersey Harvard in Plymouth, England. A descendant of John Harvard, he was brought to Harvard in 1911, graduated cum lande in 1915 to be killed in the British Army during the War. Last week his son, Peter Harvard, 19, was imported for the Tercentenary. This youngster took no active part in the exercises, was shunted quietly about as an interesting historical exhibit. Peter is enrolled at Durham Engineering School, where he will probably remain.

In Tokyo, Alumnus Baron Ino Dan (Graduate School, 1917-1918), of the potent banking firm of Mitsui, was so delighted to find a Japanese lantern exactly 300 years old that he packed it off to Cambridge in care of his friend Professor Masaharu Anesaki.

Not to be outdone, the Harvard Club of Shanghai produced a marble dragon which, suitably inscribed with anniversary sentiments, stood last week outside the new open-air Tercentenary Theatre in the Harvard Yard.

That morning on the Theatre's stage President Conant. flanked by President Emeritus Abbott Lawrence Lowell and by Harvard's oldest living graduate, a 95-year-old Boston lawyer named Henry Munroe Rogers (Class of 1862), blared his welcome to the alumni through two giant loudspeakers. He then proceeded to read several letters written by far-sighted alumni in 1836 to be read at the 1936 Tercentenary. President Quincy, it turned out, had neglected to seal them up before 1843. An unnamed Philadelphia graduate had been willing to wait a century for the denouement of a crabbed jest when he wrote: ''I owe nothing to the president, professors and tutors of Harvard College in office from 1810 to 1814." Of larger interest was a note from Samuel Atkins Eliot, later Harvard's treasurer, apologizing for delay in some Bicentenary task because his 2-year-old son was seriously ill. Said James Bryant Conant: "It was lucky for Harvard that this baby recovered, for his name was Charles William Eliot." At this mention of the man under whose celebrated 40-year (1869-1909) administration Harvard blossomed into a great University and the whole tradition of higher education was changed, Harvardmen stamped, cheered, roared their tribute to a beloved pedagog.

Birthday— Harvard claims birth on the day the Massachusetts Great and General Court convened to authorize its founding. This was Sept. 8, 1636 under the Julian calendar. Allowing for the ten-day advance of the Gregorian calendar, Tercentenary officials arrived at Sept. 18 as the date for the third and last big Day of the celebration.

Promptly at 9:30 a. m. a bugle sounded through the rainswept yard. Alumni rallied to 56 flags flying over their respective Class assemblies, began to march four abreast to the exposed and sopping seats of the Tercentenary Theatre. From the broad portico of Widener Library to their equally sopping seats on the stage filed the President of Harvard, Massachusetts' Governor James Michael Curley, Massachusetts' Senior Episcopal Bishop William Lawrence, 62 foreign and domestic scholars who were to receive honorary degrees. Also on hand was a Federal Commission authorized by Public Resolution No. 88 of the last Congress. At its head, in silk hat and cutaway, Franklin Delano Roosevelt of the Class of 1904 walked through the rain, seated himself in a red velvet chair on President Conant's right.

Through the loudspeakers a voice announced that President Conant had consulted a meteorologist who told him that the rain would last only half an hour. Down pounded the mace of Sheriff John McElroy of Middlesex County as it must to open any Harvard ceremony, and by the time Latin Professor Edward Kennard Rand had finished his Salutary Oration and History Professor Samuel Eliot Morison had begun on ''The Early History of Harvard'' the rain had indeed stopped.

Never happier than when he is displaying the flowery diction expected of an honorary degree-holder from Boston's Staley College of the Spoken Word, rich-voiced Governor Curley then arose and intoned: "I bring the greetings of the State of Massachusetts. . . . That master of prose and poetry who has sounded every depth and shoal of human feeling, William Shakespeare, unquestionably anticipated this institution when he penned the line which reads 'How far that little candle throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty world.' " After reviewing the history of Harvard, Democrat Curley got down to more familiar ground. Boomed he, cocking his head pertly at President Roosevelt: "A half century ago, upon the occasion of the 250th anniversary of the founding of Harvard University, the institution was honored by the presence of . . . President Grover Cleveland. . . . Today Harvard University is honored by the presence ... of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Both of them are Democrats, strangely enough. . . ." At this political crudity the President looked pained.

Then up to deliver the most solemn speech of his presidential career rose 43-year-old James Bryant Conant. "Such a gathering as this," he began, peering anxiously at the sky, "could come together only to commemorate an act of faith. . . . We commemorate today the daring hope of a group of determined men—a hope the fulfillment of which was long delayed; delayed, indeed, until the lifetime of many now present here this morning. . . . But the real past which we salute is but yesterday. ... It is toward the future of our common enterprise that on this occasion we must direct our gaze.

"We cannot develop the unifying educational forces we so sorely need unless all matters may be openly discussed. The origin of the Constitution, for example, the functioning of the three branches of the Federal Government, the forces of modern capitalism, must be dissected as fearlessly as the geologist examines the origin of the rocks. On this point there can be no compromise. . . .

"A hundred years from today the record will be read. With humility but with hope we look forward to that moment. May it then be manifest to all that the universities of this country have led the way to new light, and may the nation give thanks that Harvard was founded."

Before the degree-granting ceremony was well under way, a fresh torrent of rain descended on the Yard. Still confident in his meteorologist, President Conant kept stolidly on. A concerned alumnus broke through Secret Service men to President Roosevelt, whose velvet chair had become sodden, offered an umbrella which Mr. Roosevelt smilingly declined. Moment later birdlike Jerome Davis Greene, member of the Harvard Corporation and Director of arrangements for the Tercentenary, bustled up anxiously with a gold-headed umbrella. The President again declined, turned to watch Rome's Professor Corrado Gini break a well-publicized rule of the day by pulling a small camera from under his robe, proceeding to snapshoot the other celebrities.

After lunch in Memorial Church with the members of his staff, President Roosevelt was whisked off by car to snug old Sanders Theatre for a final alumni gathering. There he was greeted by Harvard's President-of-the-Day. Abbott Lawrence Lowell who once lectured him in Government 1, and by that archfoe of New Deal tax policy, Yale's President James Rowland Angell (TIME, June 15). To the crowds outside in the rain, fighting with police for admission, microphones carried a rare piece of Presidential wit.

Said President Roosevelt, drawing one of those non-political analogies he loves so well: "At the time of the Bicentenary many of the alumni of Harvard were sorely troubled concerning the state of the nation. Andrew Jackson was President. On the 250th Anniversary of the founding of Harvard College, alumni again were sorely troubled. Grover Cleveland was President. Now, on the 500th Anniversary, I am President. . . .

"In this day of modern witch burning, when freedom of thought has been exiled from many lands which were once its home, it is the part of Harvard and America to stand for the freedom of the human mind and to carry the torch of truth."

Snapped spry and equally quick-witted President Angell: "I was told when leaving the deluge this morning that this was President Conant's method of soaking the rich. So long as they are Harvard's rich, I don't care. But the endowed institutions of the U. S. cannot long survive under the threat of unjust taxation. . . ."

Old President Lowell, whose age and deafness lately cost him his driver's license (TIME. Sept. 14) had been vainly trying to follow the speeches by reading advance press copies stuffed under his coat. When his turn came he jumped up. scooted to the front of the platform, croaked: "I have heard a great deal of talk about the peril to our institutions and the peril to freedom in our modern world today. From what I know of the lessons of history, our institutions and our freedom are not in peril today. . . . What I have learned from history is that very few human institutions are killed while they are still alive!"

After Dr. Conant had adjourned the meeting "until the year 2036," President-of-the-Day Lowell stole the show by dramatically crying: "All those who believe that the world will still be in existence 2,000 years hence, and that the universities will still be here, say AYE."

"AYE," shouted the alumni with one voice.

Brains. As proud as he might be of his University, which after 300 years has no U. S. peer, many a Harvardman last week was prouder of the University's new President. Son of a humble Dorchester photo-engraver. James Bryant Conant by his gracious and wise bearing distinguished himself last week in the midst of a large body of social aristocrats, ably established his membership in the aristocracy of brains. Brains are indeed the main interest of Harvard's 23rd President. Harvard has more money ($128,000,000) than any other university in the world ever had. If it is to continue in its position of intellectual preeminence, President Conant knows it must have more brains.

Of the men who thrilled Harvard in James Conant's own undergraduate days —William James, Josiah Royce, George Santayana, Charles Townsend Copeland— most are now dead or retired.

Harvard still boasts many a faculty giant like the Law School's Roscoe Pound and Felix Frankfurter, Philosopher Alfred North Whitehead, Physicist Percy Williams Bridgman, Astronomer Harlow Shapley, but in time they must yield and withdraw as Economist Frank William Taussig and Shakespearean George Lyman Kittredge did this year (TIME, Feb. 17). To replace them. President Conant admits, will be harder now that the growth of State Universities has pushed Harvard from its "natural pre-eminence," made it uncertain that a promising young scholar will heed the once undeniable "call" from Cambridge.

An efficient and sensible administrator, Harvard's Conant has tried to attract able scholars to Harvard and keep them there by easing classroom and tutorial work, setting up "roving professorships" to cut across departmental lines. As a man who spent 20 fruitful years in the laboratory without closing his eyes to the classics, Dr. Conant has small patience with those who complain that research must not be overemphasized at the expense of teaching. To that charge he likes to cite the account by Edward Gibbon of the Greek scholars in loth Century Constantinople:

"They held in their lifeless hands the riches of their fathers, without inheriting the spirit which had created and improved that sacred patrimony. They read, they praised, they compiled, but their languid souls seemed alike incapable of thought and action. ... A succession of patient disciples became in their turn the dogmatic teachers of the next servile generation." "That," says James Bryant Conant with quiet firmness, "must not be allowed to happen at Harvard."

* The John Harvard statue before University Hall was modeled for Sculptor Daniel Chester French by onetime (1891-93) U. S. Representative Sherman Hoar of the Class of 1882. Last week the Boston press revealed that the vacant lot in Charlestown, Mass., in which John Harvard is supposedly buried is now being used as a dump.

* An unscheduled and unofficial alumni Tercentenary activity was the publication of a pamphlet called Walled in This Tomb. A 29-page indictment of the action of A. Lawrence Lowell's committee in upholding the conviction of Sacco & Vanzetti in 1927, the pamphlet was signed by such Harvard Reds as Powers Hapgood, Heywood Broun, John Dos Passes, Stuart Chase, who wanted to know "what happened to the mental processes of ... Alma Mater's President?"